


Trevilieu Christmas Prompts

by lustig



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 16:19:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14168760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lustig/pseuds/lustig
Summary: A collection of various Christmas Prompt Fills written for Christmas 2017. Six individual stories in different universes.





	1. Why are you so impossible to shop for?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FreyaLor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/gifts), [Python07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Python07/gifts), [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/gifts), [strawberriesandtophats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/gifts).



> I know it's been a while since Christmas, but I promised to post these on the Archive some day. So I thought Easter would be a good time to do so.  
> They're now beta-ed and a little cleaned up (thanks to my awesome beta [@donkey2323](http://donkey2323.tumblr.com/))
> 
> The prompts all come from [this list](https://lustigs-maerchenland.tumblr.com/post/168649180856/festive-prompt-list).
> 
> The first one is set in the same universe as [Honey, I... bought us matching swords](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333366) and was prompted by [FreyaLor](https://freyalor.tumblr.com/), rating is for Teens.

 

_Mid-December_

 

“Something –”

 

“No.”

 

“Perfume?”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

“Why not? A nice, manly scent that turns –”

 

Richelieu blushed terribly.

 

“He smells _manly_ enough, thank you very much!”

 

Anne grinned, her eyes sparkling with delight.

 

“You know that your crush on our Captain is the most adorable thing I’ve seen – like, ever – right?”

 

“Shut up,” the professor groused without any real malice and turned his still reddened cheeks away. His companion linked their arms and smiled at him, expression soft and fond.

 

“C’mon. We’ll find something for him, don’t you worry. And stop chewing your lip! It’s unbecoming. You’re a grown man.”

 

Richelieu stopped and opened his mouth for a petulant retort, yet decided against it at the last moment and clapped it shut instead with an audible _clack_.

 

Anne tried to suppress another smile that threatened to take over her face.

 

It had been completely by accident that the two of them had met a little more than an hour ago on the Christmas Market. She had seen the imposing professor many times during or after training but had never really talked to him in private before.

 

When she had seen that he was very obviously – and very unsuccessfully – looking for a gift for his lover she had decided to join him without much further ado. _Maybe, just maybe it also could have something to do with the fact that she was terribly curious what Richelieu would get their Captain in response to that_ truly glorious _sword Richelieu had gotten as a birthday present. Just maybe._

 

They walked onwards, declining wine and other booze ( _‘We already have more than should be legal. There’s nothing special about that.’_ and ‘ _Athos will get him that. He always does, as soon as Jean’s whiskey or whatever is empty again. And I don’t know anything about that, anyway.’_ ) when the upper pocket of the professor’s trademark red coat started to chime.

 

“ _Baby, you’ve all that I want – when you’re layin’ there in my arms._ ”

 

Richelieu fished his phone out and frowned at the caller’s ID.

 

“Why are you so impossible to shop for?” he asked the still happily blaring device. It had reached the second verse of the chorus now, confidently playing: “ _And love is all that I need – and I found it there in your heart!_ ”

 

With a sigh he picked up.

 

“Yes, dear? No, I’m not on my way home – well, kind of. Ran into an acquaintance, Anne Breuil, yes, your throwing-knife-queen Anne. We might’ve lost ourselves on the Market. Nah, don’t worry, I won’t drink _that_ much. I’m far too spoiled with our own collection for that – as you very well know.” He smiled, completely unguarded and unconscious of it, short and brilliant.

 

“Yes. _Yes._ I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Richelieu listened intently for another moment or two.

 

“Sure. How much do you need? Okay, no problem. It might take a– oh, okay. Well, see you later?” Another smile softened his face while he listened to the response. “Yeah, you too. Bye!”

 

This time the smile didn’t disappear after he finished the call. It only changed to a confused, questioning expression after he looked at his coincidental companion.

 

“What?”

 

“Is that really your ringtone?”

 

He bristled, visibly, and the smile and frown were replaced by a dark, defensive wall.

 

“Do you have something against Bryan Adams?”

 

“ _No_ , of course not,” she vindicated herself vehemently. “It’s just… you try to be this really dark and gloomy and strict professor – and you succeed with that on the first impression – but… you’re actually more like a frowning teddy bear. And it’s adorable.”

 

Richelieu stared at her, at a loss of words, another blush spreading over his cheeks.

 

“I’m not a _frowning teddy bear_ ,” he tried at last, only half-heartedly.

 

 

 

They didn’t really speak anymore afterwards, just providing each other silent company while they strolled through the city, looking for a suitable present for the Captain.

 

After another twenty minutes or so had passed, Richelieu finally sighed in defeat.

 

“If it goes on like this,” he gestured around, to all the useless rubbish they had already come by, “I might have to break up with Jean.”

 

Anne stopped dead in her tracks, looking at him aghast.

 

“You’re lucky I like you,” she hissed, eyes wide, “or I might have punched you just now.”

 

His shoulders slumped down. “Do you really believe me capable of that?” A flash of hurt crossed his eyes. “That man is my _world_. Just thinking about hurting him already breaks my heart. But the sword he gave me on my birthday was the most thoughtful, most personal gift anyone has given me, _ever_. And I am sorry, but I feel the need to repay him for that, at least in part.”

 

Richelieu took a deep breath and looked away, unable to hold, to bear Anne’s soft, understanding gaze.

 

“You know he wouldn’t want you to try so hard. The Captain doesn’t expect some sort of grand gesture of you. _This_ , this is not a competition between the two of you. And now stop for a moment to do what you’re best at and _think_ what might be useful to him without trying to outdo him and his sword.”

 

Five seconds passed. Then another ten. At last the professor nodded softly and offered: “He doesn’t have a real coat. One or two leather jackets, yes, but nothing fitting this weather. He claims he isn’t affected by the cold but –”

 

“That sounds about perfect. Why didn’t you come up with this earlier? It might’ve spared us about two hours of useless trouble. So, we’re looking for a coat, then?”

 

“Not just _any_ coat. It still has to be something… _extraordinaire_.”

 

“At least you’ve finally been able to make up your mind. C’mon, I think I might know _the_ place to go to for this.”

 

 

 

 

_Christmas_

 

A hand closed around the wiry arm of Richelieu mere moments after he had stepped into the warm flat.

  
“Gotcha,” the dark voice of his lover murmured while he pressed his nose and lips against the pale skin of the professor’s neck, tucking the coat’s collar out of the way. “Where’ve you been all day? Feels like you’re trying to avoid me.”

 

He growled, pleased, when the only coherent response the taller man was capable of was a helpless moan. Treville turned him effortlessly around and pinned him fully against the wall, nibbling his way up to Armand’s lips, already parted in anticipation.

 

The bag Richelieu was carrying fell to the ground with a heavy _thud_ when his hands flew up to bury themselves in the soft fabric of Treville’s jumper, his hair, his neck, whatever he was able to reach, to grab, everything to get that _fucking martial artist_ closer to him.

 

 

 

After making out for what must have been several minutes, Treville finally broke away, staring at his lover smugly.

 

“Hi,” he breathed. “Merry Christmas. You took your time.” Both their eyes were wide blown, hair tousled, while the Captain traced Richelieu’s – now slightly reddened – lips with calloused fingers. He shifted, his leg brushing the unceremoniously dropped bag. It rustled.

 

Curiosity woken, Treville looked down, catching a glimpse of blue. He reached for the bag, only to find the older man suddenly between him and his booty.

 

“Please. Don’t. Not yet.”

 

Respecting his lover’s wish, the Captain stepped back. It earned him a thankful smile and kiss on the cheek. Richelieu scattered off, the bag in hand, and disappeared into their living room. After a moment Treville followed, leaning against the doorframe to stare at the tiny waist and arse of the taller man.

 

“Did you stay away today because you hadn’t found a present until the very last minute?” he asked with laughter in his voice. The professor turned around, eyes warm and soft.

 

“Nah. I just picked it up on the way back. There was still quite a bit to prepare for today’s mass, I just offered a helping hand. Will you come with me? Later, to church?”

 

Treville hesitated for a moment, before he answered, voice serious: “You know I would do basically anything if you asked me to, right? Yes, of course I will.”

 

 

 

Richelieu hummed _Il Est Né_ when they reached the apartment later that night. Snow had started to fall, muffling all the sounds around them, silencing the city.

 

After Treville closed the door behind them and gallantly picked off the long Bordeaux coat of his lover, they finally settled down in the living room, Christmas tree lit and both nourishing a glass of strong red wine. One of their better ones, of course.

 

“So, do you finally want to tell me what you hid in that bag you carried in with you?” The older man looked away, playing with the stem of his glass.

 

“You can see for yourself, if you want to.”

 

With a curious glance to the professor, the sword master stepped over to the tree. His expression changed to one of surprise when he felt how _heavy_ the gift was.

 

“What –” he started before pulling the fabric out and staring at it, speechlessly. His fingers reverently brushed over the dark blue, nearly petrol, leather, relishing in the surprising softness of it. They continued their journey after a few seconds, caressing the ornamented shoulder pieces and collar, nearly black, with his school’s coat of arms embedded in it.

 

At the sound of his lover shifting in his seat Treville’s head snapped around. The professor still looked terribly unsure.

 

In one fluid motion the Captain rose and pulled the coat on. He stepped closer, close enough to place his hand on the other man’s chin and turn his face in the fighter’s direction.

 

“This,” Treville murmured, “is beautiful. Incredibly so. Thank you.” He kissed him then, chase and sweet, his hand stroking Richelieu’s cheek.

 

“You were worried I wouldn’t like it, weren’t you?” he inquired after they parted again, his blue eyes piercing yet understanding. He didn’t have to wait for an answer to continue: “I love it. It’s incredible. I’m not sure I want to take it off again. But you know you don’t have to give me anything, right?

 

“Christmas is not about giving other people presents – you should know that better than I do, Armand. It’s about coming together and spending time together. And _this_ ” he used his free hand to gesture around them, to the tree, the wine, the room, the decorations, “ _this_ is the best present I could wish for. To know that I will be able to spend the next few days in your company, undisturbed, to catch up on all the little things we weren’t able to over the year. Please, why let worry poison our mood? Our joy? There is absolutely no need for that.”

 

Richelieu let his head fall into the crook of his lover’s neck, pulling him closer, flush against his body.

 

“I was scared you wouldn’t find it a sufficient response to my sword”, he admitted quietly. The rumble in Treville’s chest told him the other man was laughing silently.

 

“You’ll never let me live that one down, will you?” he murmured, while turning his face into the soft hair of the professor. “To own no swords at all is an unacceptable condition. Especially if you happen to be the partner of the leader of a school for swordsmanship. I _had_ to remedy the situation.”

 

Richelieu breathed out, the brush of air hot on Treville’s skin.

 

“I love you,” he murmured gratefully and closed his eyes, leaning into his lover’s sturdy frame.

 

The snow was falling to stay.


	2. Remind me why I can’t kill the carollers?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is set in [becumsh's Coffee Shop AU](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/post/167283943970/coffee-shop-au-concepts-because-im-a-basic-bitch) and was prompted by [Python07](https://python07.tumblr.com/), rating is for Teens.

 

“ _Bloody **motherfucking** hell_!”

 

“Calm down, tiger.” Treville grinned while raising his eyebrows with an amused expression and wrapping his hands around the cup of mulled wine the barista handed him.

 

Richelieu started into the direction of the truly horrendous carollers – who had just finished their fourth song since the two arch enemies had stopped at the booth where they claimed to sell ‘ _Traditional Mulled Wine – Only Original Spices!’_

 

There were three kinds of carollers, Treville had realised very fast. The carollers, who were… acceptable. The bad carollers, who weren’t. And… _that_.

 

Their last performance – Douce Nuit – had not only ended at least a semitone above the expected level and in complete disharmony, the whole song had been sung terribly off-key. Even Treville knew he could do better. But hearing the owner of _Cardinal Coffee_ swear like a common sailor nearly made it worth the pain of listening to those truly horrifically sung Christmas Carols.

 

“Remind me why I can’t kill the carollers?” Richelieu hissed while taking his cup of mulled wine and attacking the lead singer with an icy stare.

 

Carefully blowing into the steam that rose from his wine, Treville answered drily. “Because if you did, you’d end up in prison and I’d be able to take over your Café and turn it into another tea room. And when they let you go again, the whole thing would be stuffed with nice and cosy chairs and books and smelling of my Chai Latte.”

 

His lanky companion harrumphed and took a sip of the dark red liquid, only to spit it back again after mere moments.

 

“This is _disgusting_!” he sneered, staring into the cup. “At least as bad as that almond poison you like to sell!” The mulled wine was unceremoniously thrown into the next dustbin they passed.

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you’d tried it.”

 

The older man spluttered, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I did _not_. But it can’t be worth anything if it comes from your _Teahouse_.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” The smile threatening to take over _Treville’s_ _Teahouse’s_ owner put tiny wrinkles all around his eyes, making him look more forgiving, more companionable. They had both been offered booths at the Christmas market. But the planner must have been from a different city. No one of their trusted council members would ever even have thought of putting their booths directly opposite of each other. Their rivalry was legendary.

 

Of course, because neither owner wanted to lose any customers to their personal little feud, they had decided to leave their employees alone for a while and bicker while strolling over the market together, trying out the various options of punch, mulled wine and other hot beverages. It was a completely business-oriented decision of the both of them. They wouldn’t disturb the visitors with their fighting and they could both keep an eye on the other one so he couldn’t get a little advantage by staying with his employees.

 

They agreed on a rapid retreat when it became obvious that the horrible carollers would sing yet another song and only stopped when they were absolutely sure they couldn’t hear the singers anymore.

 

 

 

A little relieved, the two competitors continued their stroll, or at least tried to, when a young man wearing red fake antlers stepped in their way.

 

“Sorry, mates, but you cannot pass like that,” he greeted them, smiling kindly and pointing upwards. Instinctively the two men followed the finger and found themselves confronted with a huge mistletoe branch.

 

For a second or two nothing happened.

 

Then Richelieu shifted his stance into something he’d probably consider a brawler’s position and groused: “I will _not_ bow to that outdated pagan trad– _mhhmhm_!”

 

Rolling his eyes Treville had listened to the beginning of his rival’s rant, grabbing him, one hand on his waist, the other placed against his cheek, and pressed his lips against the older man’s.

 

He wanted to make it short, chaste, just enough to satisfy that antler kid. But when Richelieu opened his mouth in a surprised _Oh_ and basically melted against him, he couldn’t really help himself but deepen the mistletoe-infused contact. Especially not when the _Cardinal Coffee’s_ owner buried his long fingers in the younger man’s coat and hair _like that_.

 

His hand wandered downwards, nearly to the taller man’s arse, before Treville could stop himself. But his other hand started to play with the unexpectedly soft hair, using this chance given to him to memorise as much as possible of the delicate figure in his arms.

 

When they finally parted again, touches lingering, Richelieu’s eyes were wide blown, his curls tousled. Treville stared at the grey tangle and let his hand – the one that had spent the better part of their kiss in his counterpart’s hair – caress the reddening cheek of the other man.

 

“Was that enough for you, antler-boy?” he growled. A wolf whistle answered him, together with a few cheers from other passers-by. He finally broke away from the taller man and started to make his way back into the crowds.

 

When he turned around, twenty steps or so later and found Richelieu still rooted to the spot, below the green garland, he gave him his most charming smile and beckoned: “There are still a few wine sellers out there, Richelieu. The next drink is on me. If you join me now.”


	3. Are you– are you pulling down mistletoe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only prompt set in the traditional historical verse. And I think it's actually my very first canon-verse Trevilieu story. It was prompted by [stefantrofimovic](http://proudbright.tumblr.com/), rating is for Teens.

  

It was the cold rush of air that woke the Cardinal from his – for once – restful sleep. Adrenaline coursed through his veins while he tried to cease all movement, hiding himself in the shadows Treville’s crude woollen blanket offered.

 

It took a moment or two for his eyes to get used to the dark to be able to make out the familiar back of his lover. A small beam of cold white moonlight broke through the window but reached neither man.

 

The Captain came over, as if sensing Richelieu’s distress. On his way he dropped something wiry, bushy on the table, but the Cardinal couldn’t make out what exactly the younger man had carried.

 

Treville sat down on his cot, next to the still resting First Minister and leant down for a warm, reassuring kiss and a caress of silvery hair.

 

“It’s only me, Armand. Get back to sleep. There’s at least two hours more for you.” His hand was still playing with the Cardinal’s curls.

 

Relaxing into the touch, eyes already falling shut again, the Minister murmured: “What did you get in the middle of the night?”

 

“Ah, nothing major. Bit of stuff for midwinter, you know, to protect our swords and gear and such.”

 

Richelieu went rigid, removing himself from his lover’s touch. He sat up, the blanket falling down to reveal the white shirt he wore below. His eyes were cold when they met the questioning look of the Captain.

 

“You got mistletoe.”

 

“I did, yes. Like every year.”

 

“You will _not_ put it up.”

 

Treville clenched his jaw. After a second or two he bit, his voice dangerously low: “I know you don’t like the thought but most of my men – including me – come from poorer, more rural regions of France. And these have been traditions they – _we_ – have followed for longer than anyone can remember.

 

“I do not believe in it but I don’t have any interest _at all_ in fighting with a blade touched by darkness. I will not risk that if I don’t have to. I haven’t so far and I won’t change that now, not during the Twelve Nights.”

 

Richelieu stood up, tall and terrible.

 

“ _I_ will not accept that outdated, petty pagan _flippery_ under my watch and any roof I stay! Get it out or I will leave!”

 

They stared at each other, eyes as cold as the winter night.

 

“You know where to find the door,” Treville finally growled, his whole body tense.

 

The flash of surprised hurt in Richelieu’s eyes before the scholar twirled around, throwing on his dark coat and slipping out into the night, nearly made him regret his words.

 

Still, when morning came the mistletoe could be found in every entrance and window in the garrison, especially the armoury.

 

 

 

The Cardinal didn’t appear at court that day. He claimed to be busy with preparations for the Christmas Masses. Treville was not the only one missing his company. The king turned to his left more than once to ask his most trusted councillor something, just to find the spot usually occupied by the scarlet whirl of words empty.

 

 

 

The second day wasn’t much better. Richelieu appeared at court again, all right, but not once did he try to look in the direction of his stubborn lover. After the third hopeful glance had been answered by stony silence, Treville stopped trying.

 

The king threw both of them confused looks but was too happy to have the Red Menace back at his side to ask any questions.

 

 

 

The third day it became obvious – to the Captain at least – that Richelieu hadn’t slept since the night before midwinter he had spent in Treville’s private quarters. He was trembling, just faintly, and his words came a little slower than was usual for him. He still refused to look at the Musketeer, jaw clenched, whenever he felt the Captain’s gaze falling on him.

 

Louis finished court early that day, claiming to be in too a festive mood for politics. He asked the First Minister to join him and the two mightiest men of France disappeared.

 

 

 

It was early on Christmas day that he found the Cardinal leaning against a wall in some abandoned hallway of the Louvre. Yet when he touched his lover’s shoulder, trying to offer some sort of comfort, the other man just snapped at him, telling him to “go play swords with your heathen friends”.

 

Mood dark and broody, the Captain made his way back to the garrison, eyes catching the little decoration above the entrance of his quarters that was the cause of all these disturbances.

 

Something he was so used to hanging up that he hadn’t stopped to think about what message it must send to deeply religious people. People like Richelieu.

 

Something he had grown up with, never questioning. He didn’t believe in it. Yet he’d rather put up with Richelieu leaving him not a week before Christmas than the wrath of the spirits.

 

With a determined expression, passing through his shivering boys, he went upstairs and plucked the mistletoe down. Exhaling he made his way over to the window to repeat the action.

 

One of the musketeers looked up and shouted, voice aghast: “Captain! Are you- Are you pulling down mistletoe?”

 

Treville, putting the branches in the pockets of his coat, answered calmly: “I am. Got a problem with that, Monsieur Reynauld?” Only deflected murmuring answered him. “Good. Get back to training then, will you? That’ll warm you up soon enough.”

 

The man obeyed without any further ado and Treville left again, the mistletoe safely tucked away in his coat.

 

 

 

His feet carried him to the Palais Cardinal soon enough, where he was stopped by the captain of the Red Guard.

 

“Sorry, Captain, but His Eminence is not taking any visitors right now.”

 

“He will see me,” the soldier growled and pulled out one of the branches. “Bring him this. I’ll wait here.”

 

The guard obeyed, leaving him to wait for not even two minutes before opening the door and welcoming him in, if a little reluctantly. The door fell shut behind Treville, trapping him in the room, alone with the Cardinal.

 

Richelieu looked terrible, exhausted and sleep-deprived.

 

Carefully, slowly the Captain younger man stepped closer, while pulling out the other branch hidden in his coat.

 

“Flowers for the orator,” he joked cautiously, throwing the plant on the desk. It earned him a tired smile- not much but more than nothing. It was good enough.

 

“So, you finally decided to pull them down again?” Richelieu’s voice was pained and far too quiet.

 

“Only for my quarters. I can’t take them off in the whole garrison without risking open rebellion. But my quarters are free of them, again.” He shifted, searching for eye contact with his lover.

 

“I am not sorry and I won’t ask your forgiveness because I know why I did it and I still stand by that. Yet I have no interest in letting you celebrate Christmas all alone.”

 

“There’s that feast the king –” Treville stepped closer, his hand touching Richelieu’s arm

 

“And afterwards? Will you disappear to your quarters to work till first light because you can’t sleep, again? Will you lie down alone because of a headache that has gotten worse over the day, to the point where you can’t even think straight anymore?

 

“You barely made it from midwinter to Christmas, how do you hope to accomplish through the time to Epiphany? No,” the Captain added softly. “I will not let you go through that alone. I offer you a place at my hearth for the Twelve Nights, with no mistletoe between us.”

 

Richelieu looked like he was about to cry when he finally stepped into the waiting arms of Treville, his whole body melting against the strong chest. It felt like coming home.


	4. Hum one more note of that carol and I will stab you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this one is set in the universe of [Honey, I... bought us matching swords](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12333366), this time prompted by [strawberriesandtophats/slowlymychaos](https://slowlymychaos.tumblr.com/). Rating is for General Audiences.

  

Treville closed the notebook and groaned, burying his face in his hands. Last week had been… stressful, for lack of a better word. The School for Traditional Swordsmanship he was starting to build was still not known very far, and thus Toiras and he were living on a bare minimum for now- the school didn’t pay a lot more than what they needed for rent and a bit of food.

 

It would get better, he knew that. He could see that; read it the finance book he had just spent hours bringing up to date. The campaigns the two men made, the seminars they offered were highly sought after and well liked, but they just lacked regular students.

 

Of course, there was a handful that came to the dojos whenever they could, Athos and de Foix and a few more, but it wasn’t enough. Yet.

 

And it was, by far, not enough for the extravagancies Armand Richelieu was used to. They had met not half a year ago, he a highly sought after, five-star-student of the Catholic Seminary in Paris, descending from an old and _rich_ French family, and Treville an instructor for lessons on mental self-discipline supported by swords as focus points and pivots.

 

Somehow, Treville had impressed the young priest so much that he had asked for another meeting, a private one, and then another. And another. Now they had been together for about three and a half months and were currently on not-speaking terms.

 

It wasn’t even on purpose, really. Armand had asked him to come with him to a monastery or so for two weeks over Christmas, apparently an old friend of his had taken over as abbot there and the surrounding area was nice enough and they could do this and that and whatnot.

 

Treville had refused, with obvious regret, but he had neither the time to just randomly go on holiday for a whole fortnight nor did he have the money for it. He was happy enough that he knew there wouldn’t be any need to work the few days between Christmas and New Year so Toiras and he were actually able to take a few days off, to look deeper into Lecküchner’s _The Art of Messer Fencing_ , their joint Christmas gift for themselves.

 

Armand though, Treville had learned quite fast, was not… perfect with interpersonal dealings, especially not with people he had _closer_ personal relationships with. And when Treville had declined to accompany him, the older man had shut down and disappeared, without listening to the trainer’s reasoning. That had been three days ago. They hadn’t spoken since then. Treville missed him dearly already.

 

Toiras, his co-trainer, flatmate and best buddy danced into the living room, humming the refrain to Wham!’s _Last Christmas_. Everything in Treville tensed and he turned around, slowly, dangerously.

 

Toiras was the best friend one could ask for, most of the time. He was kind and funny and honest, he had nice looks and an even nicer voice and they shared basically every hobby any of them ever came up with. And he had great taste in music. Most of the time. For some incomprehensible reason he had taken a great liking to the most terrible pop songs one could imagine. But only in the few weeks before Christmas.

 

Which meant, Treville had not only endured listening to him singing _All I want for Christmas_ in the shower that morning, no, he had also had to hear that horrendous Wham! title at various points during his afternoon spent with accounting, basically every time the other man had passed through the living room.

 

“Hum one more note of that carol and I will stab you,” he promised darkly, his gaze never leaving the sturdy figure of his flatmate. Toiras grinned, eyes sparkling. Provocatively, he started to sing louder, adding the words to the – unfortunately – incredibly catchy melody.

 

With a fluid motion Treville grabbed one of the wooden training daggers that were lying around on the desk – they had all kinds of weaponry in their flat, including at least five different swords and two Messer in their living room alone – and pounced on the taller man, hand with dagger raised in a controlled attack to his opponent’s head.

 

Toiras laughed with joy and blocked the oncoming stab easily, then stepped closer to bring his friend down and disarm him.

 

Just before Treville would have been unable to get himself out of the grip, he turned his wrist, and thus the direction their strengths moved, and threw Toiras over his back. His expression of surprise for that move was priceless, but the confident delight of the shorter man only lasted for a moment, before his friend removed his feet from the ground and they fell all over each other, wrestling and struggling and fighting, trying to get the upper hand and the dagger.

 

 

 

Their little brawl lasted only a few minutes before both men were lying on the ground next to each other, laughing freely. Treville smiled at his friend, relaxed and still a little breathless.

 

“Thank you. I really needed that.”

 

“I know. G-getting it out of the s-system always helps.”

 

They smiled at each other, still comfortably lying on the floor when the doorbell rang.

 

“I’ll g-get it. You stay,” the taller man offered, already rising again. Treville followed after a minute or two, when it became clear that Toiras was neither coming back nor bringing the visitor in.

 

“Toiras?” he asked while moving to the entrance. His friend stood there, back turned to Treville, and in deep conversation with their visitor. Very quietly, though. Under his breath.

 

When he heard his name being called, he turned around and reluctantly stepped out of the way. Richelieu was there, huddled in a red coat against the cold wind and rain, looking sheepish and a little embarrassed, maybe.

 

“Hi,” the older man started. “I… I came to apologise, for the other day. It may have come to my attention that I did not behave in the most honourable way, that day.”

 

Treville stared at his latest conquest, surprised and amazed. The priest was not the kind of person to apologise of his own free will, at least he did not seem like he would.

 

“Come on in, please,” the trainer offered, gesturing to the sofa. He exchanged a questioning glance with Toiras when the taller man had passed. His friend followed him back to the living room where Richelieu still stood, throwing interested glances to the Messer and the opened Lecküchner book next to it.

 

“I didn’t give you a chance to explain your refusal,” the visitor continued, without turning around. “I admit that I didn’t expect you to decline my invitation and, in that moment, I felt rejected, even if you didn’t mean it like that. Your mate contacted me and explained a few things.” He finally turned around, eyes locking onto Treville with a short glance to the other Jean behind him.

 

“If you are used to a certain standard in life, you lose sight of the fact that not everyone leads a life like you do.” And more quietly, he added: “At first, I didn’t realise your refusal had nothing to do with you having no interest in my company, but with your inability to join me for… more material reasons. And I am deeply sorry for misunderstanding – mis _judging_ you in that manner.”

 

“You’re an old-fashioned fella, aren’t you?” Treville grinned, carefully but warm. He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the other man’s face. Richelieu blushed.

 

“I am. And thus I wish to ask you to accompany for the two weeks or as long as you like to on my costs, as my Christmas gift to you.”

 

“I don’t –”

 

“Do, it, Treville. You w-worked your ass off over the p-past few months, you d-deserve a few days off. I can hold the f-fort down alone for a couple of days, d-don’t you worry.” Toiras smiled reassuringly at his friend, earning an incredibly thankful look of his flatmate.

 

“In this case, I’ll gladly join you, Armand.”


	5. Normally I’d say no, but I’m on my 14th candy cane, so why not?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second part of my addition to [becumsh's Coffee Shop AU](http://becumsh.tumblr.com/post/167283943970/coffee-shop-au-concepts-because-im-a-basic-bitch). Prompt came from [FreyaLor](http://freyalor.tumblr.com/), again. There is smut in here, rating is Mature.

 

“Fled your Christmas party, too?” Treville blew over the steaming travel cup in his hands and took a sip of what seemed to be some kind of tea.

 

“Yeah.” Richelieu stopped in his stride and came closer, standing next to his rival instead of walking right past him. The younger man stood in front of a bench with a nice view on the duck pond that was about halfway between _Treville’s Teahouse_ and his apartment. The shadows of the surrounding trees had hid him quite well until he had made his presence known himself to his passing acquaintance.

 

Silence fell, only to be broken a minute or two later: “Any specific reason?”

 

“Too… Christmassy. Carols and too much chocolate. And candy canes. Louis made them himself.”

 

“And you couldn’t refuse them because it would break his too-loving heart, huh? My boys spiked our tea. With rum. They’re getting merrier by the minute.”

 

“You don’t fear they’ll break something along the way?”

 

“Unlike your slobs, mine actually respect the _Teahouse_.”

 

“Why should mine respect _your_ teahouse?” Richelieu grinned wolfishly. Treville harrumphed. He still offered the cup in his hands to the taller man, who took it gracefully. After a sip and an appreciative hum he gave it back.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Personal blend, a black herbal tea mixture I’m thinking of putting on the menu. It’s with liquorice.”

 

“And rum.”

 

“Right now, yes.” The Teahouse owner sighed. “It tastes better without.”

 

There was silence again between the two men while they shared the spiked tea in the cold December night, huddling into their jackets against the biting wind.

 

“What’s your plan now?” the older man asked, hands buried in his coat’s pockets after the cup was emptied.

 

“Go home, get the unhealthiest snacks I can find and watch Christmas romance movies till I’m drunk while pondering about the unfairness in life that I’m nearing forty and still single.”

 

“ _Love Actually_?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“Do you want to join me?” Richelieu’s head snapped to the younger man, who looked about as surprised by his offer as the _Cardinal_ _Coffee’s_ owner.

 

“Normally I’d say no, but I’m on my 14th candy cane, so why not?”

 

“Your place or mine?”

 

“I thought you’d never ask.” The older man grinned.

 

“Idiot,” Treville groused.

 

“Yours.”

 

“Ah, your place is over your café, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Richelieu didn’t add that not only it was above the place he had fled not half an hour ago but also ruddy cold and draughty in winter. To spend even part of a night in well-heated, comfortable surroundings that were not _Cardinal Coffee_ sounded like a Christmas dream come true.

 

 

 

Treville’s apartment was indeed warm and cosy, crammed with all sorts of stuff but still homey, in its untidied way. It looked well lived-in and personal. The taller man relaxed, subconsciously, tension disappearing into the shadows the warm yellow light threw.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t expect to have any visitors tonight. Make yourself comfortable, sofa should be clear enough and the DVD should be in the stash somewhere. I’ll just get us something to drink.”

 

Richelieu followed the directions and made his way over to the aforementioned piece of furniture, still curiously taking in his surroundings. There were books lying everywhere, next to herbal plants in various stages of drying and growing. The television was framed by a stack of DVDs on the one and various console games on the other side. He counted at least three controllers.

 

“Ah, found my gaming collection? The boys started to gift them to me a few years back. We play every now and then when we’re too lazy to go out and hit a pub or two.” Treville handed his visitor a cup and added: “Chocolate Chili Chai Latte. Black tea with Chili, red pepper and the usual Chai spices. And Cocoa, of course.”

 

“That’s –”

 

“Unusual? Yes, I know.”

 

“I actually wanted to say _courteous_ of you.”

 

“It’ll be our January special. You’re basically just my human guinea pig. But thank you.” This time it was Richelieu’s turn to harrumph and Treville’s to grin.

 

“Didn’t you want to watch a movie and lament about life?”

 

“Let me grab the crisps first.”

 

 

 

There was actually less lamenting than both had expected. Richelieu bitched a little about the _unnatural development and fucking unrealism of at least half of those love stories_ and Treville groaned whenever another Christmas song started but all in all they had a great time.

 

It might have helped that they changed to self-made mulled wine after the Chili Latte was finished, realising only afterwards how perfectly in tune they had been in the kitchen during the preparations. It was just another thing they probably wouldn’t talk about, ever.

 

When the film finished, more than three hours after they had originally started and already deep into the night, Richelieu’s head had found a new home in Treville’s lap, while the younger man fiddled with the already greying curls.

 

If the taller man had been a cat, he’d have started to purr, but he wasn’t and so he only let his eyes fall shut and relish the unexpected touch, the undivided attention he got. Treville realised only minutes later that his visitor was already fast asleep. A sombre smile spread over his face, the fingers never stopping their work in the soft hair.

 

“Why did I have to fall for a man like you?” he murmured. The hand that was not occupied with stroking the silver curls grabbed the remote and put the telly to rest.

 

Carefully not to wake his visitor, the apartment’s owner rose, while continuing to support the other man’s head. He picked Richelieu up bridal style, bedding his head against the broad chest. The taller man weighted almost nothing and still didn’t react to the movement, not even when Treville finally laid him down in his own bed, due to the lack of a guest room and knowing perfectly well that they were both too old to just crash on the – admittedly very comfy but also terribly worn – sofa.

 

“You smell really nice,” the _Cardinal Coffee’s_ owner mumbled when the other man settled down next to him, the mattress dipping down, and pulled the blanket over both of them, a respectful distance between them. He turned around, blinking sluggishly and sleepily, one hand crawling over to the tea brewer.

 

“Sleep now, Armand,” he begged softly, placing his own hand on the sluggishly moving hand. Richelieu complied, falling back to sleep unexpected easily. Treville followed his example and closed his eyes, their hands still laced together.

 

 

 

Morning came with a deliciously hot body pressed against the still fully dressed master of the house. Still half asleep he grumbled contentedly and snuggled closer to the other person, burying his face in the soft grey curls and entangling his legs –

 

With a curse he moved backwards as fast as possible, until his back hit the wall his bed was placed against.

 

Richelieu snapped around, obviously already a lot more awake than Treville was. His stormy eyes were troubled, he looked terribly insecure. It didn’t fit the image he usually put up for the world.

 

“Before you do anything rash, please answer me one question. The kiss, below the mistletoe, did it mean something?” His breathing was too fast, laboured. The older man was already half panicked.

 

Treville gulped heavily, and finally offered: “Do you want it to mean something?” He was still leaning against the wall, as far away from the other man as possible, not trusting himself or his actions.

 

“I do,” Richelieu rasped hoarsely. Carefully, oh-so-carefully, he crawled closer, eyes fixed on any reaction his host might offer. When none came, except the wary looks he earned on his way over, he kneeled between Treville’s legs and placed one of his long-fingered hands on the _Teahouse_ owner’s cheek. Still watching him cautiously, he moved in closer until their lips were nearly touching. Hot breaths mingled while he waited, wetting his lips in between.

 

After a moment’s hesitation the younger man burrowed his hand in the thick curls and closed the remaining distance between them.

 

Richelieu moaned into the kiss, opening his mouth to invite the other man in while slowly falling and pulling backwards, effectively trapping himself between the sheets and Treville’s body, who followed the tugging readily enough.

 

“I thought I dreamt that remark from last night,” the guest whispered after they broke apart again, both panting and staring at each other, looking for reassurance, acceptance, permission. “The one of you falling for me.”

 

Treville looked pained. “You didn’t.”

 

“You’re not the only one who has asked himself that, for a very long time. Believe me.” Richelieu stroked the short cut hair of the younger man, a too fond, too painful smile gracing the corners of his mouth. A whimper escaped him when his official rival leaned down again to capture their lips for another duel, breath coming in short gasps.

 

The older man tugged at the rim of Treville’s shirt, his fingers scraping the muscular abdomen below the fabric.

 

“Fuck,” he uttered after parting from the wild and hungry kiss, pressing their foreheads together. The hand playing with the shirt palmed and caressed the other man’s chest, wandering up and down. “Why are you so… so _well-defined_?”

 

“I hit the gym every now and then,” Treville laughed breathlessly.

 

“ _Every now and then_ , my _arse_!”

 

Treville laughed a little more. Richelieu decided he liked that sound a lot but got side-tracked by the wandering lips of the younger man, who was searching for spots to lick and bite all the way down his neck and collarbone.

 

A low moan escaped the taller man while his hips bucked upwards. His other hand joined the first under the shirt, pulling it up and finally over the head of his possible new lover. He took a moment to admire the view, broad shoulders and a muscular, tanned chest and abdomen. A scar caught his attention and he stroked over it, eliciting a small flinch of the other man. He stopped nibbling the crook of his neck and sat up, as if faced with sudden self-consciousness.

 

“Don’t,” he begged, blue eyes distressed. Confused, Richelieu pulled his hands away.

 

“What –”

 

“I was stationed in Chad before I came here. That’s… the souvenir that brought me back,” he explained, very obviously not comfortable.

 

“You were shot.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I… didn’t even know you were in the army before you came here.”

 

“There aren’t many people who do.”

 

“I was in the Seminary, on my way to become a priest and financed my way through it with working as a barista.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yeah. T’was something my family… kind of expected of me, visiting the Seminary.”

 

“Life gives us strange doors, sometimes, huh?” A soft smile, mirrored. They stared at each other in silence for half a minute or so, when Richelieu stated calmly: “I think it fits you, the scar. But you’re the more handsome one of the two of us, anyway.”

 

Before Treville could reply anything the older man closed the distance between them again, nibbling at his lips like they were some kind of ambrosia.

 

“Undress me,” he ordered breathlessly, while the hand not stabilising himself on naked shoulder wandered downwards, never leaving the heated skin, to the belt and buttons of the other man’s trousers, already slightly bulged.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“We’ve been dancing around each other for how long, now? Five years? Seven?” A finger pressed on the tip of the bulge, massaging it softly through the fabric. With a groan Treville dropped forward, his forehead pressed into the crook of Richelieu’s neck. “We are not getting any younger, Jean.”

 

“If we continue, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

 

“ _I don’t want you to stop, you brick-headed idiot._ ”

 

Growling, the younger man bit the collarbone while unbuttoning the burgundy shirt, eliciting a surprised moan from his lover. They disposed of the rest of their clothing as fast as possible, both too eager, too hungry to take their time.

 

Richelieu seemed self-conscious for a moment, when they were both finally naked; his body frail and pale in comparison to the other man. He only started to relax again when Treville hissed something about not taking him for his prettiness – even if he thought the older man was definitely easy on the eyes and telling him exactly that – but because he wanted a challenge. Someone who was able to hold a conversation for more than five minutes. Someone who wasn’t afraid to talk back or give their own wishes and opinions.

 

The stormy eyes softened, the lean body melting against the broad chest.

 

“I want you for yourself,” the tea brewer whispered, lips pressed to his lover’s ears, while massaging and loosening the tight arse after reaching to his bedside table for a tube of lube. “Not for whatever you try to prove to the world or yourself.” The long fingers scraped over his back while Richelieu moaned helplessly, rubbing his already fully erect cock against Treville’s, unable to decide if his hips wanted to buck forward for more delicious friction or backwards for the fingers entering his hole.

 

When the younger man was satisfied by his preparations, he pushed his counterpart into the mattress and cushions while reaching over to his bedside table, pulling out a condom under the other man’s watchful, hungry gaze.

 

Richelieu sat up to kiss his long-time rival while he put on the sheath. Mouths moving slickly against each other they sank down again in the soft bedding.

 

“Don’t fucking dare to stop now,” the café’s owner whimpered, throwing his head back, when the master of the house let his mouth wander downwards to the sensitive nipples. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

 

And in one blissful, rare moment of obedience Treville slid home, uniting their bodies at last.


	6. Secret Santa is bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last prompt is set in the same universe as [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox' Playground Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/series/334828). Prompted by [Python07](https://python07.tumblr.com/) and for General Audiences.

 

There were days the wife of his best friend was the most perfect boss one could wish for. And then there were the other days. This was one of the worse ones.

 

“And to strengthen the bonds between the members of our staff we’ll be doing Secret Santa this year. Every one of you will pick up an anonymous name card on their way out; you have until the Christmas party on the last school day to organise something _appropriate_.”

 

Treville suppressed the urge to roll his eyes and look at Armand Richelieu, who he knew would be doing the exact same thing. They fought and argued whenever there was a chance to, but he was sure his colleague would be about as happy as he was about doing Secret Santa.

 

The meeting was disbanded soon enough and the men and women scattered off, all of them taking one of the notes, as Charlotte had ordered them to. Treville followed their example, hoping for maybe de Foix – who was quite easy to satisfy and a good friend and drinking buddy if you ever needed one – or Alaman, who was happy about anything explosive or colourful _and_ flammable he could lay his hands on. Not the best premise for a teacher, but the children loved the tall black chemist. Even their director Charlotte de Winter would be fine for him.

 

When he opened the note in his own classroom, not five minutes later, it was of course the name _Armand Richelieu_ scrawled in flourish handwriting on the piece of paper. Treville groaned.

 

 

 

“Secret Santa is bullshit,” he told Adele later on the phone, back in his apartment. “It’s basically pressing grown people into sweating over getting another person they either don’t know or don’t like a pretentious present to make them feel better. It’s only to reflate the market and to bring additional Christmas profit to whatever vendor you choose as your go-to place.”

 

“ _You sound like a bitter old man, Jean,_ ” his friend on the other side of the line laughed, “ _and it’s all because you pulled Richelieu._ ”

 

“Seriously, I have no idea what to get that man! I don’t know which kind of alcohol he might like, what kind of chocolate he prefers – if he even eats sweets- he already has everything Shakespearean that’s in existence, I guess. There’s just nothing… useful left!”

 

“ _He’s a bardolater, you say?_ ”

 

“Oh, he _never ever_ stops praising _The Bard of Avon_ ,” Treville growled. “Just ask your wife, she’ll confirm that readily enough.”

 

“ _You_ do _know that there is a travelling Shakespeare company in town, don’t you? They play a_ Best Of _of Shakespeare’s works, the best known scenes from his best known plays and stuff. I think they have a show on Christmas day._ ”

 

 

 

The Christmas party came and the Secret Santas were handed over to their new owners. Charlotte, who had obviously drawn Treville, handed him a prettily ornate box, containing a beautiful, rapier-shaped letter opener about a hand spans length. He was both impressed and delighted by the new tool, promising to keep it away from his fifth grade, which included the crazy little squad around Aramis, Porthos, Athos and little d’Artagnan. They’d have too much fun if they were ever able to lay their hands on the rapier replica.

 

When Richelieu warily opened the envelope offered by his rival, eyeing him suspiciously, he made a show of going over to the (spiked) eggnog instead of watching the taller man. Out of the corner of his eyes he was still able to see his facial features derail after pulling out the two cards to the _Best Of Shakespeare_ show for the 25 th.

 

It didn’t even take two seconds for the other man to come over, both tickets in hand.

 

“That show has been sold out for more than two months.” His blue eyes were wide opened, confused, excited. “ _How_.”

 

Treville only smiled cryptically. “That’s my secret to keep, Armand.”

 

Richelieu looked like he was unsure if he should just simply thank him or if he was contemplating the chance of embarrassing himself in front of the rest of the staff by suddenly hugging him or something equally ridiculous.

 

“Will you come with me, if I ask very nicely?” he asked instead, a hopeful gleam in his gaze.

 

“Nah. Shakespeare is really not my thing, as you very well know and usually like to point out, too.”

 

Something broke in the other man’s eyes, the beaming joy abruptly diminished.

 

“Yes, you’re right. Sorry I asked.” Brusquely he turned away, disappearing through the exit. Treville stared after him, wondering what he had done wrong.

 

Charlotte stepped next to him, a glass of punch in her hand.

 

“You should follow him.”

 

“We’re not even friends.”

 

“You could become friends. You started here together but there’s always been this rivalry between you. I think he thought that your – really quite thoughtful gift – could be you making the first step in the direction of more than just acquaintances.”

 

“It wasn’t intended as such.”

 

“He might have taken it as such. Go after him. Explain if necessary. But if you’re not going after him now, you’ll probably have quite a hard time with him in the future.”

 

With a low sigh he placed his eggnog on the next table and followed the older man. He didn’t want to hear Adele’s lamenting later that he didn’t even try to salvage their non-existent relationship after leaving no stone unturned to get those tickets in the first place.

 

 

 

“Go away, Charlotte,” Richelieu stated tiredly, without turning his back. He stood at one of the windows in the hallway, staring out to the falling snow.

 

“I’m not Charlotte.”

 

He turned, obviously surprised, a frown wrinkling his forehead.

 

“Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you with refusing your offer to accompany you or if I gave the wrong impression with offering you those tickets in the first place, like that I’d like to see that show, too.

 

“I just thought – you’re really into Shakespeare and you would have bragged about going there if you already _had_ tickets for it, so I thought you might take the chance to go to that show if given to you, and because going alone sucks, I organised two tickets. So you can pick someone to come with you. I didn’t intend to accompany you myself.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. I just thought– it doesn’t matter.”

 

“I thought you could go there with your sweetheart or whatever. Someone you actually like and who is actually able to appreciate that evening and all the Shakespeare. If you can’t find anyone, I’d come with you, but… I don’t think I’d be fitting company for that evening.”

 

A wistful smile flickered over Richelieu’s face, and he replied, earnestly: “I don’t have any… _sweetheart_ to go there with. And I don’t think any of my other acquaintances are still free that evening. It’s Christmas, after all.”

 

“Do you really want to spend that evening with me bitching about the uselessness of Shakespeare by your side? Isn’t there maybe another teacher here who might like Shakespeare enough to rethink their Christmas plans?”

 

“I’d prefer you _bitching_ by my side to going alone any time.”

 

“Would you, now, really?” Treville raised his eyebrows.

 

“Hmh.”

 

“In that case, I’ll accompany you.”

 

“Shall I pick you up around seven? Or do you want to go earlier and grab something to eat beforehand?”

 

“Seven. It’s not a date.”

 

“Didn’t say it was.”

 

 

 

“Do you think those two will ever realise how perfectly they fit together?” Adele played with her wife’s hair while staring into the distance, her head bedded on de Winter’s shoulder.

 

“They do seem especially brick-headed. But they will come around, I am sure of that.”

 

“But when? Neither of them are getting any younger and I fear that Jean will turn bitter, he has been alone for far too long, already.”

 

“They need a push in the right direction, my love.”

 

“Wasn’t the Shakespeare stuff enough?”

 

“That was actually a coincidence, that your friend really drew Armand in the Secret Santa.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“Weren’t you planning on doing a school reunion party this summer, with Treville’s and your class? If they are still not together by then, that might be the perfect opportunity.”

 

Adele contemplated that quietly for a few moments and answered, with a thoughtful expression: “That might actually work. I’d have to pull a few more levers than expected to make that one work for sure, but… that might actually work. Have I ever told you how brilliant you are?”

 

“You have, love. But thank you nonetheless.”

 

De Winter laughed, softly and darkly, and the two women finally fell asleep, snuggled together while winter clad the world around them in silence and peace.


End file.
